Welcome to the first ever day of my blog, dudes. A day that will live in infamy, as Roosevelt once said about another bad thing. Okay, let’s cut the stuff. The last thing the world needs is another blog. You’re here because of Sex on the Brain, right? You’re a sex fiend. Well that’s cool. So am I. It’s a kind of hobby of mine. A lifelong obsession that began the day my strawberries dropped, more years ago than I care to remember. Since then hardly a day has passed when I haven’t had, wanted, or thought about sex practically 24/7. Even my dreams are mostly about it. In a roundabout way, that’s how Sex on the Brain came about. Humour me peeps, while I explain. Way back in 2004 when I first got the idea for S.O.B., I was holding down a bum marketing job, helping raise my son and trying to work out how to break through as a writer. Cue violins. I’d had a near miss with a genre novel in 1997 which the publisher pulled the plug on at the last minute, flushing two years of my life down the toilet. The experience kind of poleaxed me for a while. For several years I wrote the square root of jack shit. Just thinking about another novel made me tired. Did I really want to spend another three years of my life coming home from work to hunch over a keyboard all night, and all weekend, and all my holidays, at the end of which I might not get a word published or a sou in return? Well no, duh. But yes. Life’s treadmill may almost have snuffed me out as a writer, but not quite. Sure I’d become Mr 9 to 5, yet somewhere inside me a small flame still flickered. Guttering, virtually extinguished, practically a smouldering taper with a dying glow. But it never went out completely. No sir. Then in 2004 it happened. One of those WTF Damascus deals. A.k.a. a mid-life crisis. When you get to middle age you look in the mirror one day and think oh shit. This is only going one way. It’s not a fucking rehearsal dude. This is your life, it’s half over, and you only get one shot. That’s the day the tumbler finally clicks into place in your brain. The fog clears. And you decide it’s now or never. Really. You either get off your ass and give your dreams a shot, or roll over and fade away. Hell, writing another novel was still off the radar at the time. There just weren’t enough hours left over after my day job had bitten a twelve hour chunk out of my ass. I needed something I could work up in bite-sized sessions, whenever I could carve out an hour, half an hour, ten minutes. I needed a subject I wouldn’t have to research. Something I was already interested in. Something we were ALL interested in, so reading and writing it might be a pleasure. That’s when the penny dropped. Sex, duh. The result, eight years later, is Sex on the Brain. A several hundred page collection of poems and stories about the pleasures of the flesh, imagined and real. A carnal copia that will have you roaring with laughter one minute then slipping a cheeky gun into your pocket the next. I hope. This book cost me eight years of my life dude, a shedload of eating sushi off a barbershop floor, and more dodgy one-night stands than I could count on the hands of twenty six-fingered men from Mars. I’m still in the bullshit marketing job but hey, if enough of you like my shit, who knows, one day I might be able to tell them to jam their lousy job up their ass. I’m counting on you guys. If you’ve checked out Sex on the Brain and think it’s cool, tell your friends. If you haven’t read it yet, WAYWF! Don’t let me down guys. I’ll be back soon when I’ve got some really sexy stuff to post on here.

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Welcome to the website of Frank Bukowski - author, poet, father, philosopher and proponent of the doctrine of free love. Warning: this website contains examples of Frank's dangerous writing, rare archive recordings of him reading his work, even rarer photographic evidence that he exists, occasional blog posts, and links to his seminal works of literature. Seminal is one of Frank's favourite words. Peace and love.